


In Vodka Veritas

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Holiday: xmas, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 05:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Finds Out. No sex, no romance. Sensitive stomachs, be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vodka Veritas

Disclaimers: Any errors in translation are my own, and nothing to do with Katrina. No original copyrights have been harmed. Finland remains an independent country whose export industry deserves your support. Sue me if you want to but you'll look pretty silly and I'll end up with an appearance on Oprah and a book deal.   
  
Notes: Hmmmm, not sure. B flat minor?  
  
Summary: Jim Finds Out. No sex, no romance. Sensitive stomachs, be warned.  
  


 **IN VODKA VERITAS**  
  
by   
  
Gloria Lancaster 

  
Jim was asleep - something he was good at and something he enjoyed. He was not good at, nor did he enjoy, being woken up by ringing phones at, he checked, 1.23am on Saturday mornings when he'd been at work since zero-dark thirty the day before.   
  
If this was Simon asking him to check out some low life squabble or drug deal gone wrong, it had better be a damn big squabble and a damn big drug deal.  
  
If it was Blair asking for a lift home from the grad students Christmas Get Together, then Jim knew lots of fun ways to get rid of dead anthropologists bodies, ways no one would ever suspect.   
  
It was none of these things, it was a very young scared sounding voice asking if he could speak to "Someone called Blessed?"   
  
"Huh?" was the best response Jim could make.   
  
"Blessed, I think that's a friend of Professor Sandburg?"   
  
"Go on," Jim said, dangerously.  
  
"Oh, well..." the young scared sounding voice cleared its throat and started again: "Erm, Blair's in a little trouble, man, he's - he's hiding under a desk and refusing to come out until someone called Blessed comes and gets him. He's - well, he's whining, actually."   
  
"Why is he hiding under a desk and whining?" Jim snapped, fully awake and reaching for his gun, sweats and car keys, in that order. "I thought he was at a Christmas party?" Gun and sweats on, Jim was on the move.  
  
"He was - he was. But I think someone spiked the punch bowl, and the Professor doesn't drink much and well, now he's under the desk and he won't come out and this is the first number on his speed- dial."  
  
"I'm on my way," Jim ground it out and disconnected the call.   
  
***  
  
The room showed some signs of a Christmas party; streamers, paper cups and discarded plates. Jim didn't stop and identify the different sorts of smoke still lingering in the atmosphere: life is too short.  
  
A few whey-faced, denim and baggy T shirt clad orphans were trying to clear the room, open windows and generally salvage something from the disaster.  
  
"Somebody call about Professor Sandburg?" he asked it at large and one of the more together looking orphans held up a hand.   
  
"Are you Blessed?" he asked, suspiciously.   
  
"No, I'm Jim Ellison and I'm a cop," and that sure got everyone's attention, "but I am a friend of the Ch - of Sandburg's."   
  
"Oh," the cop part of the equation seemed to scare some sense into him. "Sorry, er, most people who drank the punch went home, but - well," with a wave, "there he is."  
  
"Okay," this wasn't the first time Jim had cleared up after this sort of thing, being a cop in a big University town did that to a man, "just tell me who did it?"  
  
The orphan pointed at a semi-comatose figure leaning out of a window being extremely unwell. "Seems he's got a taste of his own medicine," Jim was grimly amused, "both ways."   
  
"We thought it was just plain ordinary vodka," the orphan defended.   
  
"And in fact, it was?"  
  
"Finnish Absolut."  
  
"White label or black," Jim checked.  
  
"Black."  
  
"Ooooooouch," Jim winced - Sandburg would be very sorry about this for some days to come. So would the perpetrator. "Kids today," he said more to himself than anyone else, shooed the orphan away and approached the desk. "Blair?" he called, impatiently, "come on out of there Chief."  
  
There was a mumble and some movement, then a muffled sound of someone hitting their head on the underside of a heavy wooden desk. Jim winced in sympathy but hardened his heart. "Blair, come on out now, its me, its Jim, I'm here." He walked round to the knee-hole and bent down to peer under the desk. "Blair?"   
  
Blair was sitting cross legged under the desk, clutching an empty paper cup and rubbing the top of his head. "Blessed Protector?"   
  
"Yeah," Jim sighed it, "who else?"  
  
Blair held out the hand that held the paper cup, stopped and set the cup down as if it were the finest china, then reached for Jim again. Jim took the hand and pulled, helping Blair unravel himself. "I feel funny," Blair informed him.  
  
"I'm not surprised you feel funny, you've most of the export industry of Finland washing about your bloodstream," Jim groused and pulled harder, setting Blair back on his feet and not being too gentle about it.  
  
Blair's face crumpled into concentrated misery. "You don't love me anymore," he accused and moved to return to his nest.   
  
"Oh, no, you don't," Jim stopped him by main force: if someone as big as Jim Ellison didn't want you to go somewhere, then you just didn't go, simple as that.  
  
"Leave," a push, "me," a pull, "alone," a big roundhouse swing to Jim's jaw. None of which bothered Jim in the least as he hustled Sandburg into an armlock that was both firm but fair. "Don't wanna go with you, man, you don't love me anymore, so I'm gonna sit under the desk," with the profound logic of the totally pie-eyed.   
  
"Sure I love you," Jim replied, with cunning. "Sure I love you."   
  
"You," deep doubtful breath, "do?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Really? Lots and lots?"  
  
"Yes, really, lots and lots. So," guiding his Guide towards the door, "you don't have to sit under your desk, now, do you?"   
  
While Blair thought about this, Jim got him out of the room and into the car, casting a final `you'd better not let me see you ever again' glare at the remains of the orphans.   
  
He made very sure Blair was safely seat belted, then took his own place, wondering and not for the first time, what particular pig- ugly Jungle God he had to thank for sending Blair Sandburg into his life. Blair seemed to have fallen asleep, which was good, but then woke up half way to the apartment wanting to go back to the party. "No, no," Jim soothed, "you don't want to do that, you want to come home with me, now, don't you?"  
  
Blair twisted around as far as the seat belt would let him and gazed at Jim with bleary affection. "I've always wanted to go home with you, man, from, like, moment one. You," with the air of Kermit the Frog with another Fast Breaking News Story, "you are a knock out," clutching hold of Jim's nearest bicep, "a total knock out."   
  
Jim risked a glance: the kid was totally out of it, talking wild. Boy, would he be sorry in the morning. This looked like some heavy duty blackmail material. "Thanks," he replied dryly, and opened his window: Finland sure did smell.  
  
"Oh, that's okay," Blair assured him, magnanimously. "You're - gorgeous!" and somehow, Blair got himself out of his seat belt and around Jim's shoulders, resting there quite happily, snuffling into Jim's neck. "So big and strong and with those long long legs and tight tight butt, hey, and those eyes? Man, there ought to be a law," another snuffle and a hug and what felt suspiciously like a kiss on Jim's earlobe. "Just," a big yawn then, "gorgeous," before passing out totally, dead to the world, on Jim's shoulder.   
  
***  
  
Jim was big, but Blair was not thistledown. It took a while, and Jim felt out of breath by the time he manoeuvred his Guide's lifeless body up to the apartment. Setting his burden down on the couch with a heartfelt groan, Jim stood and straightened his back with relief.  
  
"We're gonna have to do something about this carrying deal," Jim groused at the unconscious, sweetly smiling Blair and stomped over to the kitchen. A long glass of something cool sounded about right just now. Which reminded him... "Chief," he said, quite kindly under the circumstances, "Chief," louder and meaner when Sandburg just snuggled deeper and smiled sappier. "Ok, you asked for this Sandburg," Jim muttered darkly, and heaved the man upright and held a big glass of water to his lips. "Drink this," in his most powerful 'obey my order now Private or I'll kill you' tone, "you are gonna feel like hell tomorrow, so drink this now."   
  
There was a silent, but not quite still, moment or two, then Blair finally consented to 'drink this' and what was more, Jim made sure he didn't spill more than one third of it. To Blair's incoherent rumbles Jim only replied: "You're drunk, you'll feel terrible, drink this," and tipped the glass ruthlessly.  
  
At last, Blair seemed to settle, and Jim set down the glass and allowed Blair to lie back. Jim glanced at his watch, glanced at Blair's face, judged it to perfection: couch, kitchen sink, bowl, damp cloth, back to couch - a personal best of 4.6 seconds: then Blair emptied his guts.  
  
"Oh oh, are you sorry now, baby," Jim mused, holding heads, bowls and cloths, unfussed and quite quietly amused at all this. Sometimes, Blair was so heartbreakingly young. It almost made Jim feel young again too. "Better get it over with," he said, callously, and offered more fresh water.   
  
Three glasses of water later, Jim slackened the pace. Blair was white faced and sweating cold now, but awake, pale and mad as a wet kitten. "I am going to kill him," were the first real words Jim caught. It made a nice change from 'oh god' or 'I want to die'.   
  
"Kill who?" Jim asked as he took away the final - he hoped - bowl. "I am a detective, I need to know these things."   
  
"Jonno, he spiked the punch didn't he?"  
  
"I don't know the name," Jim was scrupulously accurate, "but somebody spiked the punch."  
  
"Oh, god," here we go again, Jim thought, and brought back the bowl. "What did I do?" Blair was hiding his face against the back of the couch, and twisting one curl round and round his left forefinger. "Did I do anything - dumb?"  
  
"Hmmmm, I'm not sure, Chief. I got a phone call you were under a desk and whining. Does that count as dumb?"   
  
Blair's silence seemed to indicate it did, indeed, count.   
  
"So I brought you home." Another groan and if anything, Blair got smaller and more pitiful and seemed intent on digging himself into the heartland of the couch's interesting interior.   
  
Jim allowed a tactful pause of some thirty seconds. "You want some more water?" A shudder. "The bowl again?" A small 'no'. "The bathroom maybe?" That, it seemed, was a plan, and Blair was tractable and very very apologetic about it all, from couch to shower to bed.  
  
"Why are we going upstairs, man?" Blair managed it through a big yawn. "You gonna hang me from the top railing as a sign to all sober god-fearing anthro students everywhere?"   
  
"Pour encourager les autres?" Jim murmured. Blair almost woke up at that and seemed about to start a debate on Jim's sudden knowledge of French, history, language and culture, but Jim hustled him towards the bed and didn't make a big deal of it - it was one of Blair's many fancies that Jim was Mr Hulk Hogan Dumb Good Guy... and Jim never held that against him, or pointed out the qualifications necessary to become a Captain in the Special Forces of the United States Army: after all, it made Blair happy.   
  
"No," Blair was already on the bed, horizontal, and covered by warm Jim smelling blankets, when he discovered some sort of sobriety. "I don't sleep here," he pointed it out, even as his eyes closed and he nestled into the comfort of the large, warm comfortable bed. "I don't sleep here."  
  
"You do now," Jim observed, firmly, got undressed and slipped in beside the suddenly gently snoring Blair.   
  
***  
  
Jim was quite happy, asleep again, warm again. He fought hard against having to wake up, but the gentle rhythmic groan, while gentle, was also truly genuine. Someone \- someone close - was in serious pain.  
  
Jim opened one eye and took a careful sniff. The bowl had not been required. That was a start.  
  
The groans emanated from a sorry small huddle under the blankets, about level with Jim's waist. The huddle was warm, Blair shaped and very sorry for itself.  
  
"Oh no, oh no," was the burden of his song, but Jim, awake and needing the toilet and some coffee, in that order, was ruthless, and dragged the very sorry for itself bundle back up to lie with its head on the pillow, like a real human being. "What happened, why am I here - did I..." a sudden catch of breath, and then Blair literally started to burrow into the bed. "I did it, didn't I? I got in here with you, I know, god, I am so sorry, I am just - I'll leave, I will, I promise, I'm sorry, there's nothing - no need to say... I'm real..." and that was all even Sentinel hearing could make of it. "What did I do?"  
  
Jim was painfully accurate: "You sat under a desk and whined, you bumped your head, you made a big pass at me, slobbered in my ear - by the way, ears don't do it for me Chief, you might want to bear that in mind the next time - stated I had a great set of legs, one tight butt and illegally blue eyes."  
  
"Oh - god." Blair was shivering again. "I envy the dead. Did I really say all that?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Oh - god." A long pause. "Why am I in your bed?"   
  
"Isn't that where you want to be?" Jim really should not be enjoying this, but he couldn't deny that he was. "Well, isn't it?"   
  
"Since day one, man, since day one." Blair sniffed then, and muttered something about an allergy and sniffed again. Jim had Kleenex ready for this - and other - things, and proffered a sample.   
  
"Blow your nose, wipe your eyes and stay - there," with a definite tug to make sure Blair remained right where Jim wanted him to be, "I will be right back," and Jim set out to ease bladder then thirst.   
  
It took three minutes - for once, even Jim used Folgers. Knowing as much about tender vodka tummies as a man his age always does, Jim did not bring a second cup for Sandburg. He was a bastard, sure, but he wasn't totally heartless. (He did think about wafting the smell towards the patient, but that would be mean, and he had thirty or forty years of being mean to Sandburg ahead: no need to start quite so soon.)  
  
He settled back under the covers and shoved his cold toes into the cosy haven made by Sandburg's knees. "Warm," he said, confimingly. "That's a good start."  
  
Blair groaned and didn't move: he looked stricken, his forearm over his forehead and eyes, like a silent movie caricature of someone with a bad headache.  
  
"Hurt?" Jim asked, his voice louder than was strictly necessary. A vague 'yes'. "Head?" Again, 'yes'. "Guts?" A very definite 'yes' for that. "Want to go back to sleep?" A small, pitiful 'yes'.   
  
Jim smiled, set down his coffee mug and snuggled down into the blankets. "When you wake up, we'll talk about this vodka thing, geez, Chief, I don't know, it takes half of Finland to force you to admit you want my bones?" Jim took possession in a bold - but rather tender - fashion. "Its not very flattering."   
  
There was a long silence, and the awkward grace of two men trying to fit their bodies together. Then: "Jim?"  
  
"Hmmmm, Blair?" sleepily, as Jim's hands smoothed warm big circles on Blair's shoulder blades.  
  
"No, Jim, really."  
  
"Hmmmm, okay, Blair, really," Jim was determined to remain warm and cosy and close. "What is it?"  
  
"Jim, I don't think... I'm sorry, I love you, really I do, but I'm about to..." and so Jim cleared a path towards the bathroom.   
  
\--  
end 


End file.
